Never before, in all his years on the force, had Joe Cardona met with such an amazing thing. It was not Middleton lying there. The body was that of Charles Blefken!
A hideous look was spread upon the lawyer’s features. Upon his throat were the marks of deep-pressed fingers. Blefken’s collar had been ripped away, leaving his neck bare.
FOR an instant, Cardona was dumfounded. Then his shrill whistle sounded the alarm. The response was immediate. Footsteps came crashing from the cardroom. There was a burst of light as the door opened; then a bright glare as some one pushed the switch of the hall lights.
Cardona was on his feet, his coat back. His badge glimmered in the glare. He was counting four men before him — all had come from that single room. Three, he knew, were the lawyer’s guests. The fourth was Stokes, the servant.
“Where’s Middleton?” demanded Joe Cardona.
“Who?” came a startled reply.
“Middleton. The man who was here.”
“We have seen no man here,” came the voice of Morgan, the attorney. “Who are you?”
“Detective Cardona, from headquarters. You were all in that room?”
“Every one of us.”